


Between Cases

by Batphace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Cheeky safewords, Dom/sub, DomJohn/subsherlock, Dry Orgasm, Feels, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sir/boy dynamic, Tongue Fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 02:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17737415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batphace/pseuds/Batphace
Summary: Sherlock is driving John nuts, and then Sir takes his boy in hand.





	Between Cases

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another commission for my PFF K. She does love it when dirty things happen to her favorite characters LOL Or better yet when her favorite characters do dirty things together ;)  
> This ones a little long for one chapter but I couldn't break it up really, so here, have a long one LOL

_“Sometimes, if he goes too long between cases, I can see it starting to eat at him. I'm not even sure what 'it' is, exactly. He goes through manic and depressive episodes like most of us mere mortals go through tea; several a day, some stronger or longer than others. Some more expensive, certainly. His mind is forever a mystery to me, no matter how close we are. If he doesn't have something to focus his intellect on, I think his own mind turns on him, starts pulling him apart at the seams. What do I know? I'm just a doctor. Just a friend. Sometimes that's enough.”_

John took a deep, deep breath for the thousandth time, it seemed, calling on all the gods of patience to please, please aid him in not wringing the neck of the man pacing behind him. Not talking, more muttering to himself, but he was exceptionally agitated today. This had been a particularly long stretch between cases, and John was getting closer and closer to the end of his rope with this man.

“Sherlock?” No immediate answer, footsteps still retreating across the flat. “Sherlock?” Slightly louder, but still with the pacing and muttering. Finally John turned in his chair. “Sherlock!” The man in question jumped as if he'd been startled. Of course he'd been startled. When he paced like this he was entirely self-focused. The rest of the world could implode around him and he'd still be pacing in the rubble and wondering where it came from.

“Sherlock can you please,  _please_ stop.” He kept most of his annoyance from his tone and felt very proud of himself for managing it. “Or if you must pace, please do it in your room. I'm trying to finish this entry-” 

“John, you're well aware of the fact that there's not enough space in my room for proper pacing.” John did know that, what with all the clutter and detritus laying about. He opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock cut him off again. “And before you ask, no I won't go outside and pace the sidewalks because I'll look like a complete lunatic. Can you see the headlines? 'Has Sherlock Holmes Finally Cracked It?'. How would that look for our image, hmm?” That was a bit caustic, but John couldn't fault him for it, not with the mood he was in. “I'm sorry if it annoys you, but you know I can't help it.” Pacing resumed. More deep breaths for John.

“Alright, compromise?” Sherlock stopped, eyes narrowed. “Can you sit for a bit instead? Please? I'm almost done. Won't be too long.” Sherlock looked at him like he'd just said the daftest thing, but finally he sat.

“I suppose I can amuse myself by counting how many seconds constitutes 'not too long' for one John Hamish Watson.” Emphasizing. Every. Syllable. John ground his teeth, eyes narrowed and waited. “Fine, fine, I'll count in my head.” With a final, semi-dignified huff, he settled in to count in his head and John turned back and continued typing.

_“Times like lately, I'm not so sure. He's restless today, so much so that he's driving me bloody bonkers. He's been pacing the floor of the flat so much it's a wonder there's any rug left. (_ He deleted ' _it's no wonder he has a fabulous arse'_ and replaced the end of the sentence, because no one needed to know what John Watson thought of Sherlock Holmes' arse, -though he could picture certain followers of their exploits cackling with mad glee over it) _. I even had to make him stop to eat lunch. Then, right back to pacing. I'd finally had it and made him sit so I could finish this entry, but even now, as I type, I can hear him fidgeting behind me. Tapping his fingers on the couch arm, tapping his toes on the floor, ready to climb out of his skin in the forty or so seconds it's taken to type this up. He needs something, and inexplicably, I want to be the one to give it to him. I'm just not sure what, or how to begin..._ He considered deleting that last bit too, but he was done for the day. He could pick it up again tomorrow. Hell, maybe Lestrade would call with a case for them and the whole entry could go in the rubbish bin.

John closed the lid on his laptop and turned to his frustrating friend, who had bolted up and returned to pacing the moment the laptop lid was closed, muttering something about ninety-two-point-something seconds. He watched, fascinated, and yet confused, because he really did want to be the one to help. The doctor in him studied Sherlock analytically, running through non-pharmaceutical options to help with anxiety, mania, agitation... Then something hit him, completely gobsmacked him, and he couldn't believe he hadn't recognized it sooner. Going through medical school, he'd had to take at least rudimentary psychology classes, even if that wasn't where he would specialize as a doctor. He'd learned about certain personality traits, including dominant and submissive traits.

John assumed, as most everyone would, that Sherlock was dominant, through and through. His superior intellect, his need for control, even his mild -being generous there- obsessive compulsive disorder and the fact that he was a self proclaimed high functioning sociopath; it all screamed a need for dominance and a tight reign on control. Even in John's own relationship with the man, John submitted to him in their work and at home because it was easier to capitulate and John rarely cared where things were, so long as he could find them. He was so used to Sherlock's eccentricities that he could take a guess if he couldn't. Sherlock had a _way_ he did things, and John had learned early on that it was better to let him have his way. It worked well enough for them, and when something truly important to him came up, John stuck his ground and they hashed it out. However, John knew that he, too, was a dominant personality; it's why he'd done so well leading his fusiliers. Rarely were humans exclusively one or the other.

An idea started to take form. What if Sherlock needed to be introduced to a side of himself that he probably didn't even know, or acknowledge, existed in him. It couldn't be verbal, since Sherlock could talk circles round him. John had to _show_ him. It had to be John too, because Sherlock trusted him. He'd never submit to a stranger. Ever. The idea excited John, in surprising and not so surprising ways. His cock was trying to perk up at the idea of Sherlock submitting to him, and a whole wide realm of possibilities played like a slide show through his mind tha- No. John shut that down. Assume control, go from there. Sound strategy, even if he'd be winging it. He was taking a gamble, certainly, but the payout would be worth it if he was right. Right.

As Sherlock turned to pass him on yet another lap across the flat, John grabbed his wrist firmly, just below the sleeve of his robe, tight enough to hold, but not tight enough to hurt. The man stopped immediately, and John was expecting a question, or an outburst, or for him to try and pull away. What he hadn't expected was for Sherlock to just stand there, staring wide-eyed at John's hand round his wrist, and while Sherlock studied their contact, John studied Sherlock's expression. His face was almost unreadable, though his complexion had paled slightly, but in his jade green eyes John saw... wonder.

 

 

All Sherlock felt was wonder. He stared at John's hand on his wrist and with that contact everything in Sherlock just... stopped. His mind was silenced. At _John's_ contact. He'd been lucky with John Watson, though he didn't believe in luck and he'd never admit it aloud. He'd been immediately attracted to the man, but had squashed it quickly. Sherlock didn't consider himself homo or hetero or bi or sexual of any sort, but he could not allow an attraction to a flatmate and eventual partner in crime fighting, because he knew even in those first moments that's what they'd become.

John was patient and understanding of his quirks and strangeness. He accepted Sherlock as he was, and stood up to him when necessary, and John had no clue as to what that actually meant to him. John didn't know it, couldn't possibly, but he was also Sherlock's rock. His stone and tether to keep him grounded and humble. Well, humble enough. Sherlock knew he was not an easy man to know, let alone live with and work alongside, but John took him in nearly unflappable stride. He looked down into the man's cornflower blue eyes and saw something in them that called to him, called to his frenetic mind. John's eyes said, ' _I can calm you, I know how',_ and damned if Sherlock didn't desperately want that. Need that.

“Say something, Sherlock.” John's voice was barely more than a rough whisper. “Tell me what's going though your mind right now.” Sherlock nearly laughed at that, but levity had no place in a moment like this.

“Nothing, John.” Sherlock could see the questions coming and cut him off. “Since you grabbed my wrist there's absolutely _nothing_ going on in my mind. For the first time in days it's blessedly quiet in here,” he tapped his temple with his free hand, leaving John's grip on his wrist, loathe to lose that tentative connection. They'd maintained eye contact, and Sherlock saw something interesting pass through John's eyes; relief, and under that, an infinitesimal spark of heat. Coupled with the contact and quieting of his mind, an answering heat was coming to life in Sherlock's belly.

“Sherlock, I think I can help you.” John swallowed thickly, and Sherlock followed the movement of his throat before returning to his eyes to find more heat and slightly dilated pupils. “I think I know a way to calm your mind. Give you a... a break from it.” His voice was slightly rougher, but still soft like the blue of his eyes, almost hypnotic. Sherlock was fairly certain he knew where this conversation was going. There was a reason Irene Adler had piqued his interest, after all. Ironically enough, this man was the primary reason he hadn't genuinely pursued her.

“You want to... dominate... me, John?” Sherlock purred the question. The flush of the cheeks and throat, the widening of the pupils, quickened breath. Yes, Sherlock thought John wanted that very much, but he had to test the man's mettle first. Sherlock knew John had the spine for this, but did John, himself, know? “You think you _can_ dominate me, John?” John stammered a moment, swallowed.

“Yes I thin-” Sherlock cut him off.

“You? John Watson, wounded soldier turned sidekick to the great Sherlock Holmes, you think you can dominate a personality as large as mine? Hmm?” Sherlock saw the self doubt in John's eyes, and felt his stomach fall. Come on man. Time for the real test. “That's what I thought,” he said with a sneer that felt ugly even to him. He started to pull his wrist from John's grip. “Maybe someday but obvious-”

“Shut. Up. Sherlock.” There! There was the spine, there was the fire, and the command in John's tone and the way his grip had tightened around Sherlock's wrist sent a flood of cool relief and a thrill through him that almost took his breath away. Sherlock gave him an infinitesimal smile, and John returned an equally infinitesimal nod.

“We're not in our proper places are we?” John asked as he stood, forcing Sherlock to back further onto the rug. “Go grab the union jack pillow and bring it right back here.” Oh, oh God, it was even better than Sherlock had expected. That commanding tone in that familiar voice was like a live wire straight to his cock, and the pyjammas wouldn't be able to hide his reaction much longer.

“What if I don't?” Sherlock had to test him one last time. John looked startled by the question, but the answer should've been obvious if he only thought a moment.

“I haven't got that far yet into punishm-”

“John! What happens if I don't?” Sherlock kept eye contact. Come on old boy, you know this. Think it through. John narrowed his eyes in thought, started to speak, stopped himself, then finally the proverbial light bulb.

“If you fail to follow any of my commands, we stop. Period. No punishments, no second chances. Understood?” More command, more relief. Oh, yes.

“I understand.” Sherlock turned to get the pillow.

“I understand... what.” John's tone was a little dangerous, and Sherlock turned back to him, taking in his bearing and damn the man was sexy, drawing on his soldier's nature. Sherlock hadn't been sure John would want the titles, but he supposed it made sense, helped him get and keep his mien for something that was mostly new to him.

“I understand... Sir.”

“Good boy, now grab the pillow and stand before me.” Normally being called 'good boy' would've been a burr to his pride, but the way John said it made it feel like the caress of a praising hand, and it made him shudder and hardened his cock further; definitely no hiding it now. He grabbed the pillow and then stood before John, as dictated. John just stood there, looking at him speculatively. What was he waiting for? As Sherlock looked him over, he noticed a pronounced bulge in the front of the man's trousers. Was that bulge from the domination, or Sherlock's submission, or was it for Sherlock himself? When he looked back up and made eye contact, Sherlock knew he'd been caught ogling, and for the first time in a long time he felt heat bloom in his cheeks.

“Drop the pillow on the floor in front of you.” John's voice had gone a bit gravelly. Interesting.

“Yes, Sir.” He did as he was told.

“Now, on your knees, boy.”

 

 

John put extra emphasis on the last word, having not missed Sherlock's reaction to it earlier, the same reaction he got now as he dropped his lanky frame, more gracefully than one would have thought, to his knees on the pillow. The man was practically vibrating, and there was no missing the tent in his pyjammas. John had expected him to balk at his need for the titles, but was pleasantly surprised when he not only accepted it, but embraced it eagerly, grew visibly more aroused from it.

That was something else that was throwing him for a loop, though he tried not to let it show. Sherlock was _aroused._ Aroused by John, by what John was saying and doing. His mind automatically wanted to ask questions. Was it just the domination that had him hard as a steel pole? Just the submission? Bloody hell. It was a Pandora's box he wasn't sure he wanted opened, but he had to know.

“I'm going to ask you questions, boy, and you're going to answer them _honestly._ You will not lie to me, is that clear?” God above this man was to be the death of him, but he'd known that since the day they met in Molly's lab.

“I won't lie, Sir.” Sherlock kept his head down, something which he hadn't been ordered to do but something for which John was grateful. Sherlock had always told him his eyes gave away too much. If the answers to his questions weren't the ones he'd hoped for, he could keep the disappointment from his voice, but never from his eyes.

“First question. What are your safe words?” Sherlock's forehead wrinkled as though his eyebrows had gone up in surprise, and John rolled his eyes. He wasn't _that_ bloody naive.

“Murder for full stop, and... Mycroft, to slow... things down...Sir.” Haltingly spoken, as though trying not to laugh, as was John at that moment. He let an amused snort escape and Sherlock looked up. They shared the moment of humor -God but did he look gorgeous on his knees and smiling- before diving back in.

“Good boy,” Sherlock's head lowered again, though John could still see his shoulders shaking a little. “Second question.” The shaking stopped with a quick in-drawn breath, as though he could anticipate what was coming, and logically, maybe he could. Best to just get it out there then. “You're aroused, probably steel hard by now. The question is: Why?” A fine trembling of another sort ran through the robe clad body. John found himself waiting with bated breath for the answer. Sherlock's back rose and fell, rose and fell; two deep breaths before answering.

“You, Sir,” came the quiet answer. John's jaw dropped. But...

“Explain. No lies or this ends now.” John barked a little sharper than he'd intended. Sherlock's head snapped up at his tone, eyes locking with his own. Bewildered, yes, but John saw nothing but naked honesty in the jade depths. Maybe Sherlock was banking something on John's answers as well.

“You, Sir. I'm aroused by you.”

“By me. By my domination over you? Or your submission in general? Or...” John cut himself off, not daring to voice his hope.

“Being dominated, being on my knees and submitting, yes, Sir,” and John's heart sank, his eyes dropped, until the man finished his sentence, “but only because it's _you_. John Watson. The domination and tone and bearing are icing on an already devil-to-resist cake. I've done a good job so far, maybe too good.” He smiled sheepishly when John looked up at him. He'd broken scene, or whatever this was, but John's throat was too damned dry to reprimand him for it and he didn't want to anyway. “Sir, may I ask a question, and expect the same honesty in return?” John nodded, still not able to speak properly. “Are you aroused by the domination and having me on my knees, or... by me?” So vulnerable. John considered using Sherlock's own safe word because once spoken, there would be no going back. John had to swallow twice to get the lump down his throat.

“It's... it's for y-you. For Sherlock Holmes. The man. The submission is... icing as well.” Damned hard to get out, but there it was, and all they could do was stare at each other a moment in dumbfounded, mouth gaping stupidity. Then John did something he'd been dying to do for as long as he'd known this man. He stepped forward, went to one knee, grabbed Sherlock by the back of his neck and pulled him into a hard, almost brutal, kiss. Sherlock opened for him immediately and ravaged his mouth with equal fervor. God he tasted divine. Like rainwater and cognac and something so uniquely _Sherlock._ Sherlock pulled back -though John tried to bring him back immediately- and rested their foreheads together and John just breathed the man in for an unbelieving moment.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Any more questions?”

“Loads, really. Only one _pressing_ question though. Does this mean sex acts can be included in this session, or whatever it is we-” Sherlock's soft laugh against his lips silenced him.

“I'll use my safe words, if needed. Sir.” With that last word John was shoved back into his role. He stood up fully, which put his own steel tent pole closer to Sherlock's chest; tall git that he was. He looked down at Sherlock, and Sherlock only had eyes for that bulge. Seemed they were jumping in with both feet then.

“Right, then. Sit back on your heels. Shuck the robe, too. I want to see all that glorious skin.” Sherlock complied, eagerly almost, allowing the robe to pool around him on the floor like a slinky dress off a woman. This was much, much better though. John admired all that milk glass skin turned rosy with desire, the pebbled nipples, and the gooseflesh that burst forth all over his skin at John's obvious appraisal. It was warm enough in the flat, so he knew the reaction had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. After he'd looked his fill, he stepped forward, widening his stance to straddle the other man's knees a bit, and began unbuckling his belt, watching Sherlock's reaction carefully. The man licked his lips, and his eyes stayed on the bulge that was now just about mouth level. “You do the rest. Take my cock out, and if I feel even a hint of zipper, we're through.” God this was better than even the best fantasies he could come up with.

“Yes, Sir.” Sherlock's voice had gone rough as he undid the button, and oh so carefully lowered the zip, pulling his trousers open wide and lowering his red briefs even more carefully to expose John's cock and heavy balls. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, just the visual of him exposed like this before Sherlock's pretty lips had his balls tingling.

“Good boy, very good.” John purred, gut clenching at just the thought of his next command. “Now, suck me.”

 

 

“My pleasure, Sir.” Sherlock damn near moaned the words. He had a little experience at sucking cock, mostly the odd, anonymous bath house tryst, just to scratch the itch. He wasn't fond of the taste of latex, rather killed the mood for him. However, he knew what he liked, and so he applied it here to start. It would be so very much fun to discover what John liked and loved. What drove him mad and higher. He began by licking the bit of precome that had already formed at the bulbous tip, which was almost completely out of it's foreskin at this point. The salty-musky-pseudo-alkaline taste of the man burst on his tongue and he and John both groaned in unison.

Keeping his tongue lapping at the head of John's cock, he raised his eyes to look at the other man's face. John's blue eyes burned, half lidded as they were, with desire and power, and Sherlock felt his skin rise into bumps all over again, felt his nipples tighten painfully at the magnitude of that look. All this, and he hadn't even truly begun. He held eye contact as he slowly took John's cock into his mouth, almost down his throat, and hollowed his cheeks as he rose back to the head, intensifying the suction. John moaned, long and loud, tossing his head back, and so Sherlock did it again, and again, slowly, never quickening, down and back up.

“Bloody hell, that's amazing. You've got a mouth made for this, haven't you, boy. _Hnngg._ ” The praise rolled through Sherlock, warm and sticky like treacle and he loved it. John dropped a hand to grip his hair gently, and Sherlock could feel John's hips twitching as though he wanted to thrust. Holding back. Sherlock popped off the end of his cock.

“You can fuck my mouth, Sir,” he purred, but John gave him a dark look that surprised him.

“You dare to tell your Sir what he can and cannot do to his boy?” Sherlock's eyes widened. He hadn't meant to, but that's exactly what he'd done. John waited patiently while Sherlock worked through it in his head. He wanted it, John wanted it, but it couldn't come from Sherlock's desire for it. He wasn't the one in control. It had to be John's choice

“Sir? Will you fuck my mouth?” That did it. John shuddered. Sherlock could even feel the tremble in the hand holding his hair before it tightened enough to pull _just so_.

“Very good, boy. Again, ask again. _Beg_ me to fuck your mouth.” Sherlock couldn't stop his own shudder and his cock pulsed, wetting the front of his pyjamma bottoms with precome.

“Please, Sir, please fuck my mouth? Please?” Sherlock made his voice a submissive, seductive entreaty -no one else on this world nor anyone on any world beyond human knowledge would ever hear that tone in his voice, only this man-, and John's eyes glittered, the beautiful blue nearly swallowed by abyssal pupil. That was beautiful too, though, because it meant he was loving this as much as Sherlock himself. “Please?” He added one last time just to watch the reaction in John.

“You are _stunning_ when you beg, boy.” John growled the words and shuddered again. “Alright, since you asked so nicely, open your mouth. Let your Sir have his way.” That last roughly growled sentence hit Sherlock right it the gut and sent another pulse of precome from his painfully hard and weeping cock. He did as ordered and opened his mouth just wide enough to admit John's thick cock, and held still. John played a moment, seemingly mesmerized with swiping the head of his cock across Sherlock's wet and already plumping lips, smearing his prefluid and saliva around. He dipped just the tip past Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock kissed it, suckling slightly. The moan John gifted him with made his hands flex on the man's powerful hips.

John put his other hand in Sherlock's hair, gave a tug of warning, and finally thrust, pushing his cock experimentally into Sherlock's mouth. A moan, pulling out a bit. Another thrust, this one harder, pushing further past Sherlock's lips. He closed his eyes as John found a rhythm, expanding his other senses as he lost himself in being used; musky scent and salty taste as precome flowed from John's cock, the feel of velvet covered stone sliding between his lips and along his tongue, the slick sound it made and the groans of the man taking his pleasure from Sherlock's mouth.

John growled, the grip on Sherlock's hair tightened, and he thrust faster, harder. Deeper. Deep enough to make Sherlock gag and John pulled back and stopped immediately with the head of his cock just inside. Sherlock lifted his eyes dazedly, searching out John's and finding them holding a question; _too much?_ He was giving Sherlock a chance to safe word if he needed to. Sherlock answered by closing his eyes and moaning, the vibration rolling through him and over the sensitive head of John's cock, making him gasp.

John moaned as he thrust hard once more, and Sherlock did his best to open his throat and control his breathing, swallowing around the cock in his throat to keep from gagging. Being completely, willingly subservient to another's whims like this was nothing like he'd expected. He felt freedom in being controlled, even though his hands were still on John's hips, they were only there for the tactile connection. He wasn't truly helpless, but he didn't need to be. Even if John stopped in this throat, closing off his airway, he'd still not push him away. God but it was heady. He groaned again around John's cock as he imagined the man controlling even his ability to draw breath.

Sherlock felt John's cock stiffen, felt his theory might just be tested because surely the man was about to come down his throat. Instead, John snarled and forced Sherlock's head back, pulled his cock completely from Sherlock's mouth and wrapped his fingers tightly around the base; he was _killing_ his orgasm. Sherlock looked on in breathless confusion as John shook and groaned, brow furrowed as if in pain, and he supposed the man had a hellacious case of blue balls from being that close and retreating so suddenly. John opened his eyes finally, finding Sherlock's dumbfounded expression and smiling ruefully.

“I'm fortysomething. Not got the refractory time I had, and I'm nowhere close to through with you yet.” The last bit came out almost like a threat and that made Sherlock shiver and groan, which in turn made John chuckle darkly. He extended his hand. “Come on boy, we're taking this to my bedroom.” Sherlock took his hand and rose to his feet to follow John, nearly colliding with him when he stopped suddenly and looked over his shoulder and said, “Grab the belt of your robe, will you?” before continuing on, hard cock still fully on display and bobbing with every step, into the bedroom.

 

 

John grabbed the belt of his own bathrobe, thinking about all the things he could use to tie his boy up. Somewhere whilst fighting off his orgasm and suffering through the bit of vasocongestion he'd started truly thinking of Sherlock as his boy, even in his own mind; he'd have to be careful with that. Sherlock was only his for now, and he intended to make the most of it. He found a couple of his older, softer leather belts, and a couple neckties, just in case. This. This is where he would truly put Sherlock through his paces, and the thought of mounting him at the end of it like a prized stallion and riding the hell out of that gorgeous arse... John shuddered and tossed the extra bindings on the bed, turning just as his stallion walked a little dazedly into the room. His room was spartan, he knew that; didn't even have a rug for his boy to kneel on. Too bad. He wouldn't be down there long anyway.

“Lose the pyjammas.” Sherlock looked uncertain for a moment, which was absurd given where his mouth had been not but a few moments ago, but he did drop them to pool at his feet, and of course, there were no skivvies. John was sure his harsher tone unnerved his boy, but that was part of it. This _, this_ would be true domination. His boy would be truly, genuinely helpless to his whim, and John knew he was winging it, but between his medical and military training he could recognize signs of stress versus true fear. Excitement versus panic. John stood there and appraised him a moment, just because he could. Not saying a word. Giving nothing away. Just stoically marveling over the other man's exquisite body. His boy started to fidget a little, and John decided he'd looked his fill.

“On your knees again, boy.” The sharp tone made Sherlock wince again, but he went to his knees with another wince, since this time there was no pillow. John waited a moment for him to settle, expecting a request for a pillow, or something to put between his knees and the hardwood floor, but none came. His boy knelt, head bowed as before, without complaint, and he did look amazing there; naked, waiting on his knees for his Sir's orders. “Pick your head up, face your Sir.” John didn't miss the jump of the other man's cock at the command as he looked up. “Good boy. I need to see your face for the things I'm about to explain, understand?”

“Y-yes, Sir,” his boy said, voice the most timid he'd ever heard from the man, but glancing down, Sherlock's cock was hard as ever. Good.

“Tell me your safe words again.”

“Murder for full stop, Mycroft to slow down, Sir.” Not even a snicker this time. Perhaps he, like John, had felt the intensity of the room shift and realized what was to come.

“Out there,” John pointed to the common area, “you were under my command, but you were not helpless. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Sir. I liked the feeling very much, Sir.” Oh gods, John thought, that deep voice sounded so pliant, and it made John's balls ache again.

“Oh my boy, you're wildly beyond anything I could imagine. You did splendidly out there.” His boy beamed at the praise. “However, in here, I'm going to make you truly, completely, utterly powerless.” John watched Sherlock's face closely, clocking every reaction from the hard swallow to the fluttering eyelashes to the way his cock jumped. Even the fine tremor that wracked him. “I'm going to bind you in such a way that your entire body will be immobilized, and if you don't believe me, consider my military training. You won't be hurt, nothing pinched or blocked. You'll simply be unable to move on your own,” John grinned wickedly down at his boy, watched his pulse and breathing quicken, watched his pupils dilate, and the trepidation rise in his jade eyes, “and then, boy, then you'll be completely at my mercy. I will touch you, pinch you, pet you where and whenever I choose. I will torture you sexually, play with your nipples, your cock, your balls, your arse, maybe even fuck you, if you're a good boy, and there will be no way to stop me. _Unless_ you use your safe words. Understand?” By now his boy was panting, sweat dripping from his temple, a fine trembling all over, eyes glassy, and prick stiff as ever, like a dowsing rod pointing straight at his Sir. His boy swallowed twice before answering.

“Yes, Sir.” That was simply not good enough.

“Yes, Sir? That's it? No questions, no objections, nothing, boy?”

“No, Sir,” Sherlock looked up at him with utter devotion, and it hit John like a freight train to his chest, “I trust you completely, Sir.”

 

 

And Sherlock meant it, too. He'd trusted John Watson with his life. He trusted his Sir implicitly with everything else. That's what he was now, too. John Watson was not in this room. No, this was Sir. His Sir, and that thought warmed him from his core. He floated to his feet when ordered, positioned himself accordingly when ordered, stood perfectly still as his Sir's skilled, knowledgeable hands did exactly as promised. Sir started with two linked, butter-soft leather belts around his upper shoulders, tight enough to bind, and bite just enough to be delicious when he flexed to test it. Sir ensured the buckles were not placed where they would dig, a consideration Sherlock himself had not even thought of, and it made him smile, which in return made Sir smile.

“You're such a good boy, so good.” Sherlock basked in the praise. Sir then took two thin neckties and bound his arms behind his back, forearms overlapping a bit and resting just above his arse; tight enough to bind, but not pull his shoulders too much. A third necktie bound his ankles together loosely and he looked at his Sir questioningly. Sir smirked. “Patience, boy. It's loose now, now but it won't be by the time I'm done.” Sir took such good care of his boy. Sir lifted his boy's face to peer into his eyes and Sherlock noticed again what a beautiful blue they were. “How are you, boy? So far so good?” Oh gods, it was so good. So much better than- “Answer up, boy,” Sir barked. He thought he had.

“Yes, Sir. Amazing. Please, please don't stop. I want it to be as you said. Please?” He begged, because Sir had told him he liked that before. Sir shook his head and groaned.

“What did we talk about earlier, hmm?” Sir pinched his boy's nipple and made him gasp, made his cock twitch and drip. “How do you get what you want?” Sherlock thought it through. How did he get what he wanted? Ahh...

“I don't, Sir. I only get what Sir gives me,” he purred, “but Sir, didn't you say you wanted me completely immobile and at your mercy?” Sherlock batted his eyelashes a little and Sir groaned again.

“Cheeky brat,” Sir said with a smile and a light swat to his boy's cheek. Sherlock's eyes widened and rolled and an involuntary moan left him at the sting from Sir's touch. Sir noticed. “Oh really? Maybe we explore that a little after I'm done trussing you up. Nothing too serious,” he grinned evilly, “not this time at least.” Sherlock nearly lost his legs. Sir picked up each robe belt, one silky blue, the other a soft cotton that must have been Sir's, and tied them together with a simple reef knot. He tugged it tight then turned to his boy. “Are you ready, boy?”

“Yes, Sir,” he almost moaned. Sir pulled the end of the cotton robe belt through the belt buckle at the front of his right shoulder and tied it off, then wound it around his boy's torso and arms, staying in almost constant contact to help his boy maintain his balance. It was then, as Sir's shirt brushed across his boy's tightly peaked nipples and made him gasp, that Sherlock realized that Sir was still fully clothed. All except for his cock still out, brushing against his skin and leaving cool trails of precome behind to mark it's touch; almost like a second touch, like Sir decorating his boy with himself. That thought, coupled with textures of the cloth rubbing across his skin as only certain strips of it were covered, and only covered where Sir wanted him covered, had him about to come on the spot, completely untouched.

“Sir, Sir please...” his voice was a broken whisper through clenched teeth as he tried to maintain control, and he felt Sir tense behind him. “Sir I'm going to come, don't let me come, please. I don't want to come yet and-” Suddenly Sir wrapped his arms around him and his balls were yanked down in a harsh pull that made him cry out as Sir's other hand clamped firmly around the base of his boys cock. It burned, to have been thwarted when he was so close, but the relief he felt rush through him brought tears to his eyes. He sagged back against Sir and felt the man's arms tighten around him, felt his lips brush the nape of his boy's neck.

“Better now, boy?” Sir asked roughly in his ear, clothed chest and exposed cock pressed to his boy's bare back and arse and Sherlock's body nearly betrayed him again. He trembled against his Sir, and Sir hummed in his ear. “I didn't think we'd have to ring your cock, boy, but it seems we will. Control yourself until I'm done binding you, and I'll tie your cock as a reward.” There was a teasing challenge in his voice that made his boy smile and took his mind off his need. All he needed to do was control his body just a bit longer, and then his Sir would take even that control from him. Logically it seemed so backward, rewarding his control with the removal of that control. He shuddered at the thought.

“Yes, Sir. I won't come, I promise.” Sherlock felt a smile against his shoulder, and then Sir was back to work. He pulled the improvised rope tight enough to bind but not cut in, going around his waist and taking it wide down the side of his hip so that it wrapped again at upper thighs; leaving his cock, balls and arse completely open. Sherlock groaned at the realization, and he heard a dark chuckle from his feet where his Sir was looping the end of the robe belts around the center of the necktie that bound his ankles, tightening it, but also padding the bones as he tied it off. As Sir rose to his feet before him, holding his boy steady with both hands stroking lightly up his flanks then to his shoulders, Sherlock's eyes nearly teared up again at the passion and adoration he saw in his Sir's eyes.

“Just look at you,” Sir whispered, kissing his boy's lips gently, almost chastely. “You're extraordinary, you know that? Of course you know that, but really. It's breathtaking the way you're affected by this.” Sherlock whimpered.

“Sir? You said if I was good while you bound me you'd reward me.” It wasn't quite telling his Sir what to do, was it? Sir smiled.

“And you were good, weren't you. Cock's leaking like a sieve but you didn't come.” Sir stroked his boy's cock once, and Sherlock moaned helplessly, hips jerking even as he was bound. The feel of the different textures, from leather to silk to cotton, pressing into his skin, holding him like a caress, holding him tightly together so he could fly apart, it made him moan wantonly. Sir chuckled. “I'm going to help you to the bed just behind you and help you lie down on your back, then you'll get your reward.” Sherlock nodded; as if he had a choice. The lack of choice, even in what space he occupied as he lived and breathed pushed him even further outside himself.

Sherlock felt drunk and high and stoned all at once and all in the most delicious of ways. He was finally, finally free of his mind, and the relief brought tears to his eyes. As Sir got him laid out on the bed he noticed the tears and his eyebrows went up in surprise then furrowed in concern. His boy shook his head and smiled before Sir could worry. He never wanted Sir to worry about his boy. Then Sir disappeared for a moment, returning to kneel beside him on the bed. Sherlock felt his Sir wrap a thin strip of what felt like cotton cloth around the base of his cock and tie it. It was tight, but just on the edge of painful, and he knew Sir had done it purposefully. Sir knew his boy well.

“Comfortable, boy? Nothing chafing or pulling since you've laid down? No pull on your shoulders with your hands behind you like that?”

“No, Sir,” he replied dreamily. “It's perfect.”

“Good,” Sir's smile was more like a showing of teeth, “because now, now my beautiful, amazing boy, now I get to _play_ ,” he growled, and cemented in his boy's mind the primal nature of his Sir.

 

 

John felt a primal, almost animalistic glee at the prize laid out on his bed like an offering to a pagan god. He knew Sherlock trusted him, but this was... he didn't know what this was, and it was a bit frightening, were he completely honest with himself. His boy. His Sherlock, at least for now, but he shoved that nagging thought back and began to play. He started by leaning down and kissing his boy softly, but as soon as he felt Sherlock's mouth open to take the kiss deeper, he sat up and stared at him hard. His boy lowered his eyes and blushed, a lovely crimson stain on his cheeks that complimented the stain of arousal in the skin around the bindings.

John leaned down over his boy for another kiss, with a stern warning in his eyes before they closed and he pressed his lips softly against Sherlock's again, and when his boy's lips stayed shut, John thrust his tongue into his boy's mouth and plundered it heartily. This time he didn't back away when Sherlock took a little initiative and delved his own tongue into John's mouth. Instead, John sucked at it, and his boy gasped in a breath and exhaled a moan so sweet that John just had to keep at it. John kept kissing him breathless, twining their tongues... then pulled back so abruptly he got a good look at the pleasure he'd given his boy, before the shock at his departure took over and he nearly broke down laughing.

“I want to move on to other things.” He stood and finally began to take off his clothes, and the tiny pang of self consciousness he felt was done in by the way his boy's eyes widened as he pulled off his shirt. John was in okay shape, but he wasn't the paradigm of midlife beauty. Apparently his boy thought he was Adonis, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by. John wouldn't let it go to his head. Much. As he dropped his shirt to the floor he shucked his trousers quickly enough, since they'd still been open with his hard cock bobbing about. He'd gotten the sense that his boy had liked the few times it had brushed against him though, and that thought kept him so, so very hard.

He stood beside the bed, soaking in his boy's adoration and trying to decide where to begin. He idly stroked he skin of his boy's chest with his fingertips, watching delightedly as the flesh rose into goosebumps in his wake. He did it again, along the same path, tripping his fingertips across the bindings, and Sherlock's reaction from skin to cloth back to skin was remarkable. His eyes rolled, his body tried to arch against his bindings, which was lovely to watch. John groaned and straddled his boy's hips, pressing their cocks together, making him groan and buck again.

“Enjoying yourself, boy?” A strangled whimper was all he got, and that made him chuckle. He reached down and pinched both Sherlock's nipples, gently pulling, rubbing the taut flesh between his fingertips and got another whimper. “I like the sounds you make for me, boy. I cause them. They're mine. Don't keep them from me.” His boy moaned, a sound so dirty it made John's prick jump. He plucked the nipples in his fingertips roughly before leaning down and ravaging each with his lips and tongue in turn and causing all kinds of cries and moans. His boy was close. He ground his own erection against his boy's again, and Sherlock cried out desperately.

“Sir, Sir I feel like...I'm going to come.” John shuddered as the pitch of his boy's cries escalated at the continued assault on his nipples and unrelenting grinding on his cock. “Sir... Si- _Ah!_ ” John trembled as he felt his boy stiffen and buck beneath him, but he felt no wet heat against his abdomen as he kept up the pressure. He'd known Sherlock's mind was powerful enough for this. He looked up at the ecstasy and wide eyed confusion on his boy's face.

“That, boy, was a dry orgasm. The burst of endorphins without the physical ejaculation,” he explained, grinning wickedly. “I plan on making you do that several more times in fact.”

“But... but Sir. I-”

“I did that. I commanded it out of you, took that control from you, too. Are you arguing with your Sir and what he wants from his boy?” John kept his tone low and harsh and he felt Sherlock tremble beneath him.

“No, never, Sir.”

“That's what I thought.” John moved down his boy's body, kissing and rubbing and petting along the way, giving Sherlock a breather before he did what he'd fantasized about for ages. He paused, making his boy crane his neck to look at him, making dazed eye contact just before he licked his boy's straining cock from the cotton bandage tie around its base to the leaking, rosy tip. His boy gave him the most exquisite sounds, dulcet moans and breathy cries as John teased his cock, flicked his tongue across the head, licked up the precome from his slit then sucked him down. His boy groaned in agonized rapture, bucking hard, coming for him again, and goddamn that was an amazing thing to be the cause of. John humped his own leaking cock against Sherlock's legs, reveling in the feel of the soft hairs and hard bone against his aching prick and tight balls. He kissed and suckled around his boy's cock and hips, soaking up every sound his boy gave him.

John was as lost and dazed as his boy. The pleasure hummed through him like a million volts from a live wire. He was overcome, the intoxicating rush of power and dominance over this man going straight to his head. The things he was saying, the things he wanted to do, seemed so out of character for him when he thought about it from a distance. It almost gave him pause, but his boy was starting to squirm again, and he decided he could think it through and fret over it all later. Now, his boy needed his Sir.

“I'm going to flip you over now, boy, and take a taste of that gorgeous arse.” John growled the warning and gave his boy a moment to let that sink in, so he could safe word if necessary. All John heard was more whimpering, pleading moans, and so he carefully maneuvered Sherlock onto his belly. He pulled his pillow down from the head of bed and tapped his boy's hip. “Raise up a bit. I want that lovely arse in the air.” His boy moaned and did as he bade, flexing his body and raising his hips just enough for John to shove the pillow between his pelvis and the mattress, then helped Sherlock adjust so his cock was comfortably pressed into it. John had to grab his cock and mentally recite the names of all the bacterium he could remember. The sight of that pale, lanky body, his boy's body, _Sherlock's body_ , arse in the air, back arched slightly, face angled so that his burning green eyes were on his Sir, had him damn close to losing his own control.

 

 

Sherlock looked back at his Sir in awe. The man was the embodiment of control in that moment, with his boy bound and helpless beneath him, arse up and at his mercy. He was so dazed from the unimaginable pleasure his Sir was inflicting on him. The dry orgasms had been a surprise that even he hadn't fathomed. He knew of the concept, of course, but concept and realization were vastly different. That his Sir could control even his psychological responses... he shuddered at the thought.

“Are you good, boy? Comfortable?” Sir asked roughly. Even as Sir battled his own need, he thought of his boy.

“Yes, Sir,” Sherlock's voice was rough, “soo good, Sir. Please, don't stop?” He phrased it as a question, because it had to be his Sir's choice whether to stop or not, but God his boy hoped he would continue. Even as he felt too much, it was not enough, and Sherlock suddenly had the most powerful desire to have his Sir inside him. Fully inside him. Taking his pleasure and shooting his seed deep in his boy's body, unimpeded by prophylactics. His Sir was a doctor, he knew he was clean, and as a doctor he insisted Sherlock be tested regularly as well. Sherlock moaned as his Sir leaned over his back, hands planted on either side of his shoulders, stone hard cock nestled in the cleft of his arse, and he couldn't help but arch against that hardness, pressing his hips up against it. Sir moved one hand and swatted his boy's hip gently, making his boy moan like a wanton whore. Oh, God that was good.

“Stop that, boy. Lie still and take what I give you,” Sir growled out as he rubbed the underside of his cock along his boy's puckered entrance.

“Yes, Sir,” Sherlock whimpered, “I'll be good. Sir's good boy.” Sir shuddered above him and bit down on the skin of his shoulderblade.

“I know you will, boy. You'll be so, so good.” Sir's body moved, rubbing his whole front against his boy's back, thrusting his hips again before moving down, planting kisses and bites along his boy's spine. He tried not to wiggle too much, wanting to be still as his Sir had ordered. Sir kissed and licked his sacrum, pulling more moans from his boy as his tongue lapped across the top of his cleft. Sir lifted, and he could hear his panting breaths, felt one trembling hand on each globe of his arse as Sir roughly pulled him apart, opening his boy up and letting cool air wash across his entrance. Sir hesitated, maybe giving his boy a chance to object, but there would be no objections.

“Please, Sir,” he whispered brokenly, and with a groan Sir spread his arse cheeks further apart and laved his tongue from his boy's taint to his sacrum, making him cry out and thrust against the pillow. Sir did it again, and again, moving his tongue around his boy's hole, lapping and nibbling on his flesh before sucking gently at his pucker and all his boy could do was lie there and take what Sir gave him. He felt another orgasm building in his spine, behind his balls and flooding over his mind in waves as Sir drove him higher and higher. Sherlock felt tears rolling from his eyes, the stunning pleasure burning through him until it was all there was, all he could feel, all he could think. He felt Sir's tongue stiffen, and he screamed out another dry orgasm as Sir plunged his tongue inside his softened hole, fucking him with it over and over and over...

When next he was coherent, Sir was laying fully atop him. The weight of his Sir pressed him into the mattress, grinding his boy's painfully hard cock against the pillow beneath him. He could feel and hear the other man panting, breathless, behind him, steel hard cock poised to enter him. His Sir hesitated, and it was all Sherlock could do not to squirm, both in anticipation and just to feel his bindings, to know that he was exactly where his Sir wanted him, exactly how he wanted him. Sir drew in a deep breath and his boy melted into the mattress, relaxing in anticipation of the penetration...

“Mycroft,” Sir whispered. That word. It meant something. “Sherlock, did you hear me? Mycroft.” Sherlock. Mycroft. Sherlock's safe word to break for a moment was Mycroft. John was using it. Needed a break. John, not Sir. Sherlock jolted a little as reality pushed back in, brought him back down to earth a little. John pressed skin to skin with him, about to enter him, and God that was an amazing thought, but something was wrong.

“John,” Sherlock croaked, turning his head as far as he could in his current position. “John?”

“Sherlock, tell me this means something. Really means something.” His voice was a rough, cracked whisper. “Not just Sir and boy, but... but John and Sherlock. Tell me...” John pressed his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades, panting, trembling, waiting for affirmation. Sherlock was at a loss.

Didn't the man realize? Didn't he know by now?

“Oh God. Of _course_ it means something.” He felt John's gasp against the damp skin of his back. “John, it means... it means _everything._ ” John groaned aloud, planted an open mouthed kiss against his skin, and with that, Sir split his boy's arse open and thrust his cock inside.

 

 

Inside. Oh God, he was inside his boy. Inside Sherlock. His boy keened beneath him, spine arched and bucking against both his Sir and his restraints. There was no fear or pain to be heard though. It was nothing but cries of pleasure, shouts of ecstasy as John humped his way inside his boy until he was balls deep and surrounded by silky heat. He'd relaxed his boy's entrance with his tongue, slicked him with spit and his own prefluids, but it was still a snug fit. He groaned.

“So tight, boy. So good.” He gave an involuntary shudder as his boy's muscles clenched around him at the words. “You like that don't you, boy? You like hearing how good you make your Sir feel. You're burning hot inside, and so tight around me I can almost feel your heartbeat all around my cock.” John rasped the words into the skin of his boy's back. “It feels like you were made just for this. Just for me.” His boy groaned and shuddered, reduced to mindless utterances and babble. John chuckled as he withdrew and Sherlock whined a bit at the loss, then cried out as his Sir thrust hard back inside, impaling him over and over.

“That's it boy, take it! Let me hear you. Take every inch of my cock and give me all those lovely, filthy sounds.” John planted his fists in the mattress to either side of his boy's hips and rode him hard, just as he'd imagined, making skin slap against damp skin and forcing his cock as deep as his boy could take him. Even then, Sherlock lifted his arse higher, trying to take him deeper. John balanced on one arm, grabbing a fist full of his boys hair and pulling, forcing him to arch harder. He wrapped his other arm around his boy's chest, laying along his back and over his bound hands, using his whole body to fuck into him. John used his weight to press Sherlock into the mattress and change the angle of his thrusts until he felt his cock brush over the bump he was looking for. He nailed it again, and again, harder. His boy screamed out, inner muscles fluttering around his Sir's cock as he came dry for the fourth time.

“S-Sir!... Sir... _ahh..._ ” His boy sobbed so beautifully, and it all came together to have John's balls churning. He wouldn't last much longer. He'd been worked up too long to deny himself now. He had to know though.

“I'm going to come inside you, boy. Would you like that?” John ground his hips down, pressing his cock deeper, massaging his boy's prostate and feeling Sherlock's deep moan vibrate through his own chest and around his cock. “Would you like to feel your Sir's hot come deep in your arse? Dripping out of you? _Marking you_?” His words growled out, punctuated by thrust after mindless thrust. He was so. Damn. Close.

“Yes!” Sherlock's cry was pure ecstasy. “Yes, Sir! Please!” John growled again, thrusting harder, holding nothing back.

“Again!” John shouted, biting at his boy's back. “Let me hear how much you want it! Beg for it! Beg for your Sir to come inside you, to fill you up with it!”

“Please! Please, Sir! Please come inside me? Please shoot your hot come deep in my arse?” His boy's cries intensified. “Please, fill me up, Sir? Please? Please!” Mindlessly begging now, just the way John wanted him. Keeping one hand in his boy's hair, his other hand worked its way between Sherlock's body and the pillow, tugging on the end of the quick release knot he'd used to secure the cotton strip around his boy's cock.

“Now. Scream for me, boy.”

Sherlock did. Oh God did he ever. His boy shook the walls and windows with his pleasure, inner muscles clamping down on John's cock so hard he could barely move as his boy was finally allowed physical release. Cock throbbing, he shot hot and wet against his Sir's hand where it still held him.

“That's it! That's it, boy! Fly for me. Such a good boy. Good boy...Oh... _ohhh...”_ John's body took over and he gave in to it. His whole body seized, pushing his pulsing cock deeper and deeper into his boy as his orgasm went on and on, wave after wave of mind numbing euphoria whiting out his senses until he was spent. Still his body rocked and thrust, unable and unwilling to stop as his boy whimpered and trembled, and _fuck_ if that wasn't the most delicious feeling ever. Feeling Sherlock's inner walls sopping wet with his own spend slicking the way... John shuddered and his cock pulsed again.

Murmuring praise, he let the shaking in both of them subside a bit before pushing himself up. Sherlock mewled as John's cock slipped from his body in a wet gush and John couldn't keep himself from spreading his boy's arse open just to watch the fluid trickle from his hole. It was depraved as hell, and felt so dirty but in the best way, and his boy just moaned and clenched, trying to keep that bit of his Sir in. John had the presence of mind, barely, to release the belt buckle on the back of Sherlock's left shoulder, slackening the entire restraint before pulling the tie at his arms off and leaning back to untie his boy's ankles, tossing the whole mess to the floor. He got up on shaking legs and got a wet cloth from the privy to clean his boy with, helping him turn over off of the soaked pillow, tossing that to the floor as well. He'd have to replace that, he thought with a slow grin. He stroked Sherlock's chest, pulling a sheet up over both of their cooling bodies.

“Sherlock?” He asked tentatively. The man's eyes were glassy and distant, lids falling and rising sluggishly, still floating. “Sherlock, come back to me.” John stroked his cheek, ran his fingers through Sherlock's damp curls. He was beginning to worry. John could feel the weight of what had transpired between them pressing in on him. Gods, what had they done? What would happen now? What would happen if people found out? John's fingers snagged on a tangle in Sherlock's curls, drawing his attention down to Sherlock's eyes, which finally sharpened, smiling lazily. “How do you feel?” John was almost afraid of the answer.

“John, I can hear you fretting already,” Sherlock's smile turned wry. “Lie down with me. The rest can wait.” John frowned.

“But...”

“I'm here, John,” he murmured softly, “I'm here.” His eyes closed, his breathing evening out almost immediately as he started to drift off. John watched him for a moment before lying down beside him, pulling the man into his arms and resting with him. Sherlock's green eyes opened just for a moment, locking with John's, and he smiled softly. John closed his eyes, drifting off himself, and felt Sherlock press a kiss to his throat. “I'm here.”

 

 

Unnumbered hours later, the beeping of his mobile roused Sherlock from his sated sleep. His body hurt, but in the most delicious way. His arse ached, and he bore down just to feel the residual burn and remember the feeling of John -his Sir- inside him, Sherlock smiled down at John. He left the man sleeping, padding naked out to the common room to find the source of the beeping. Flipping through his messages, he found one from Lestrade; _'Got one for you'_ followed by an address. The next one made him blanch.

Mrs. Hudson; _Really, Sherlock, is all that screaming necessary? I had company over!_

 


End file.
